Why must I write? (1)

I had written two pages, when I realised that I did
not know why I was writing. The content of those
pages now only remain etched in my memories.
 Now, I am left with ink and paper, still unsure
Why I must write.

It is strange how I cannot write.

My head is heavy with concurrent thoughts,

yet I cannot write.

Why must I write?

I am aware of the ordeal.

Then why must I write?

In a book, on papers that no one must read,

by principle, none should read. 

My sleepless nights are mine, so are the drenched pillows.

I am aware.

How the clock ticks by and I refuse to sit up,

with dreams still wreathing over the lashes,

besides the salt creeks on cheeks.

I know it all.

From the throbbing in the ears to gasping for breath,

from muffled cries to shivering rage.

Then, why must I write?

Who must know? Of the throbbing, the rage?

None.

Or I shall be (declared) sick and mad.

I shall not write. I shall not write.